She should've asked about the woman at the lagoon. She's a goddamned idiot—but what harm could it do, she'd thought. In what world would that same woman, scorned by Senka's now-lover, end up at her doorstep with Senka's drunk husband on her arm? There are many ways that she'd thought of her infidelity being discovered, but this did not even make the list. Worse, she's not even certain if her husband is coherent enough to precisely connect the dots—but come morning and the return of his sobriety, understanding will dawn. Augustine Scowcroft is not a stupid man. She'd shut the door in Isolde's face with a faint sneer, and when she turns towards Augustine, she cannot quite meet his eyes. Wordlessly, she guides her stumbling and swaying husband to the curved couch in front of the cooling fireplace, pushing him onto the cushions before she walks across the room to the bar. When she returns, Senka presses a glass of water into his hands, and then settles on the opposite side of the couch, eying him warily. "August, I—" she falters, bites her lip, sucks in a breath. She doesn't know how to have this conversation, despite all the time she'd had to consider how she might go about it. There's no good way, no easy way, no way that won't be utterly heartbreaking for them both. Because a part of her does still love Augustine—that young, innocent girl with stars in her eyes still loves him. Misses him. Wants back a taste of what they used to have. Senka finally settles for, "I'm sorry," because wherever this conversation goes, however it ends, she is sorry. Not for finding herself a stolen piece of happiness, because she's damn well earned it, but for how it will destroy Augustine to know that he had her, and he lost her. how strange, to dream of you even when i am wide awake |
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Senka sighs softly, watching Augustine return to the bar. She hates this version of him, the sloppy drunk who can't keep his paws off the bottle; it is the only version she is privy to see these days. But she's well aware that she's in no position to chide him, so she simply watches him over the back of the couch, her heart in her throat. It's interesting, how she notices his inebriation so much more in recent history; she wonders if that's because he's gotten worse, or because she's had exactly one sip of alcohol since the first night Odysseus had come here. No one has questioned her sobriety, but it's been a lifeline for her. "If anyone it's sorry, it's me." She wants to ask—for what? Has he noticed the way she breaks a little bit more every time he denies her? Every time he disappears into the night, only to come home reeking of alcohol, to consume more when he returns? Is he sorry that Senka has gone from a flower reaching for the sun to a wilted rose, curling in on herself? Is he sorry that he can't save them? She wants to ask, but she doesn't. She does not want to be cruel. Swallowing the rising lump in her throat, Senka clings to her composure and meets his gaze across the room. "Since autumn," she answers, her voice more composed than she feels. Slowly, she slides off the couch, rounding the back of it and crossing the room towards him, her nails clicking softly on the hardwood. Senka stops in front of him, keeping a short distance between them—though she's not certain if it's for his benefit or her own—and tips her chin up to him, her eyes glassy with tears unshed. The fact that this has hardly begun and she's on the verge of crying is a bad sign—and out of character for Senka. "This—us—we don't work anymore, August. You see that, right?" It is the only thing Senka sees when she's with him now. She sees him losing himself to the bottle, to his job, to the underbelly of Sussex. She sees them fighting with increasing frequency about his insistence to go fight, begging him not to, him going anyway. She sees that month she spent alone in these haunted halls, meeting Odysseus, the wallowing of her self-pity beginning to turn into the knife-sharp blade of her anger. She isn't angry anymore, she supposes. When it comes to Augustine, she's apathetic. And she will live as a shell no longer. how strange, to dream of you even when i am wide awake |
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"Right." He drifts away from her again, and Senka lets him go this time, leaning her hip against the edge of the bar. She's chased him for so long, pined after him, begged for him—but that naïve version of her is gone now, the stars dimmed from her eyes. The glasses are no longer rose-colored. But she had loved him, with the purity of a girl who would make the best of her situation, and his "we barely worked to begin with" has a muscle in Senka's jaw ticking. "Don't do that," she says firmly, but not harshly. "Don't belittle what we had." Had, not have. Because it's gone now, that spark of magic. She is not the same girl anymore, and he is not the same man. They have both grown, and rather than entwining like the roots of a tree, they have each diverted to their own paths. "There's still time," he says, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. He has no idea who she is anymore, what she's done, where her heart lies. "Right, because your boozy lawyer friend is going to keep her mouth shut," Senka snorts derisively. No, she'd seen the burning hatred in Isolde's eyes as surely as she'd heard it in the venom of her tone; she wants revenge. Senka just isn't certain yet if it will be aimed at Odysseus, herself, or both. "Would you like me to pretend I'm still happy here?" Unsaid, but clear as day: she isn't happy anymore. "You can't even look at me anymore. Is that because of my guilty conscience, or yours?" Senka has straightened where she's standing, but she doesn't move; with each word, her voice grows confident with certainty, and unbidden, anger. He has stonewalled her at every turn, pushing away her every effort to connect with him, and now he wants to tell her there's still time? "There was time, Augustine. There was months of it. You spent that time cozying up to the Thieves' Guild and fighting in a war to bolster your own pride." Senka lets the information she knows fly with lethal accuracy—for all his attempts to keep his associations hidden from her, he failed. And his crimes are just as damnable as hers. how strange, to dream of you even when i am wide awake |